Florence moved to call Teresa, but Galenus stopped her with a gentle gesture. "I merely wished for her to help me check the identification tags."

  "Give them a moment longer, Florence." The surgeon placed a compassionate hand on her shoulder. "Let the young ladies be for a moment, Florence. They are debating at a great crossroads in their lives, and the choice must be their own." The assistant blinked in understanding, then resumed her energetic inspection of each patient's identification card with renewed diligence.

  "Who among us truly has the luxury of easy choices?" Treni gripped her sister's shoulders, her eyes glistening with barely contained tears. "Since the day we were sold to that brothel, we've survived by clinging to each other. Whatever identity you chose, I adopted the same. But today, Teresa Disha White, I must implore you to exercise extraordinary caution before committing to this path. Our former existence centered exclusively on ourselves. We had no family, shouldered no responsibilities beyond our own survival. We traded our bodies, receiving in exchange humiliations and pleasures that belonged entirely to us. We lived our own lives—even if tomorrow brought the gallows or abandonment in the gutters, I could face such fates smiling, for they would be endings of my own making. But this choice before you now means inserting ourselves into others' destinies. Every incision, every suture, every thread will carry the desperate hopes of the dying and the unknown weight of their futures. We will bear unimaginable responsibilities, perhaps even endure the curses and contempt of those we fail to save. I cannot bear to watch you—simply because you accidentally preserved one life—allow pride to cloud your lovely mind, convincing yourself you've become some battlefield savior, some beacon of hope for the wounded. We are prostitutes, Teresa. We know nothing of medicine. We were never meant to be healers."

  "I concur with your assessment, Treni—at least partly," Teresa gently lowered her sister's hands, holding them tenderly between her own. "We are indeed prostitutes, ignorant of proper medicine. But whether we possess the capacity to become healers—that conclusion requires practical testing. That's precisely why I expressed desire for knowledge—to learn everything possible. Should I ultimately prove unsuitable as a physician, I'll abandon the pursuit without hesitation."

  Treni inhaled sharply as Teresa suddenly embraced her with unexpected intensity. "But you, dear sister, are different," Teresa whispered softly against her ear. "You should—indeed, you must—choose your own direction, your own destiny. There exists no obligation binding you to my decisions. Do you understand this?"

  Teresa's words failed to elicit the anticipated response. "Are you casting me out, then?" Treni's voice was thick with unshed tears. "Trying to push me away? Do you truly think I am--"

  "I believe you deserve autonomy in your choices," Teresa interrupted, meeting her sister's gaze directly, their tear-streaked faces rendered achingly beautiful in their vulnerability. "But unless you choose departure of your own volition, I would never send you away. Never, Treni. Not in this lifetime."

  Galenus Dioscorides poured himself a carefully prepared glass of lemon water, evidently intended to soothe his frayed nerves. "Very well," Treni declared after a prolonged silence. "Then you'd better apply yourself diligently to your studies, sister. I have no intention of losing my position as your assistant prematurely."

  "You've decided?" Teresa's voice rose in surprise. "You truly intend to join me in medical practice?"

  "Merely as your assistant," she clarified with a gentle smile. "I haven't your sharp mind, nor your clever hands." Teresa found herself momentarily speechless, unrestrained joy illuminating her features. Galenus privately concluded that today's lemon infusion had erred significantly toward excessive acidity.

  The entrance doors crashed open with sudden violence; soldiers formed disciplined ranks on either side. Two middle-aged knights carried between them an elderly man. "This is Duke Ferma," announced a knight with a gleaming bald pate. "His injuries are severe—immediate surgical intervention is imperative."

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  The elderly nobleman's armor was exquisite beyond compare, its dark gold finish maintaining remarkable pristine condition despite battlefield conditions. As Galen's gaze traveled upward, he beheld the true tragedy—a savage sword strike had traversed the wrinkled face horizontally, destroying both eyes completely, leaving nothing but horrific crimson cavities where those organs of sight had previously resided.

  "Bring him to the table," the surgeon directed with professional composure. Florence was already preparing the necessary identification documentation. "Teresa, Treni—your assistance is required. This represents a major surgical challenge."

  The half-elven sisters hastily wiped away their tears, surreptitiously transferring the moisture to each other's garments. The bald knight delivered a forceful clap to Galen's shoulder, leaning close. "His Grace's advanced age should have precluded battlefield participation. To encounter such grievous misfortune immediately upon engagement—truly lamentable. Should the duke expire, Lord Carbo naturally inherits his title." He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, his implication unmistakable. "You comprehend the appropriate course of action, don't you, Earl Dioscorides?"

  "Indeed, I understand perfectly," the surgeon replied with unmistakable frigidity. "Now, remove yourselves from my operating theater."

  The knight's departure was punctuated by excessive force applied to the door, generating a reverberating boom throughout the chamber. "Florence, prepare small-scale surgical implements. The straight blade—smallest available—hook probes, and precision forceps. Ocular preservation is impossible, but wound cleansing and hemorrhage control constitute our immediate priorities... Anesthesia is necessary, though moderately administered." He assessed the rapidly deteriorating nobleman. "Expedite preparations—he's entering shock."

  The assistant returned promptly bearing a substantial basin filled with surgical instruments. "Let us commence, ladies. You will provide surgical assistance." He accepted the straight knife from Florence's outstretched hand. "Within these walls, there exists only healing—no power struggles, no political machinations." The half-elven sisters remained uncertain regarding the intended recipient of this declaration.

  And so they began saving each other, even as they worked to save another.

  Patrick Fort suddenly realized he had neglected the customary bow of respect. Before he could correct this oversight, Duke Pafaheim enveloped him in an enthusiastic embrace. "Your reputation precedes you magnificently, Headmaster," the nobleman declared, delivering a congratulatory clap to Patrick's shoulder with nearly bone-crushing force. "Your presence—and particularly your arcane talents—are desperately required." His eyes were shining with an almost manic hope.

  "That is... precisely why I've come, Your Grace," the young man stammered.

  "Allow me to summarize our predicament concisely." The duke approached the tactical map, then seemed to reconsider and returned to his previous position. "The situation is fundamentally straightforward, Principal. We must contain the Godman forces beyond our gates—at minimum until dwarven reinforcements arrive. I'm hopeful your magical capabilities might facilitate this delay."

  "He appears to conceptualize magic as some omnipotent force," observed Goblin Halleck under his breath. "Is his advanced age responsible, or has he simply never witnessed authentic arcane practice?"

  "Maintain silence," Idaho admonished his sibling sharply.

  "You cannot suppress my freedom of expression," Halleck protested, inflating his chest indignantly. "Perhaps I should inform them of our imminent departure, Idaho. Our primary assignment demands attention."

  "Simply cease vocalization entirely," Idaho hissed with evident frustration. "Have you failed to observe the current dynamic? Our distinguished Principal currently occupies the central role. Duke Pafaheim practically regards him as some savior. No one currently acknowledges our presence—excessive verbalization will merely provoke human irritation. Our appropriate action is discreet withdrawal—slipping through that aperture," he indicated the door with a subtle gesture, "to resume our assigned responsibilities. Move with proper goblin technique—silent as a phantom. Proceed first." He attempted to propel his brother forward, but Halleck maintained his position stubbornly. "Very well, I shall demonstrate proper technique." With that, Idaho himself moved, gliding away on tiptoe like a phantom, his passing making almost no sound at all. Halleck responded with a resigned shrug, muttered a colorful expletive in his native tongue, and followed his brother's example.